


In The Meantime

by HenryMercury



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Ending: Swan Song, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-typical alcohol abuse, Coffee, Doctor Sexy M.D., Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, F/M, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer's bored waiting for Michael to get himself a vessel; being an archangel's prom dress isn't quite how Sam had envisioned it; Castiel has confusing feelings for Dean Winchester - and Dean's been having really interesting dreams of late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Meantime

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Good Friday. Have some gay angel romance and coffee with the devil.

Lucifer was in a better mood than he had been in millennia. He was finally out of that bloody cage, and finally in Sam Winchester’s towering, muscular body; everything was going according to plan. It made him want to do something celebratory—he felt obliged to tempt some small children into dodgy vans with toffee-apples, or something, but to be honest awful things were doing a good enough job of happening by themselves. Humanity was a disgrace even without his input. He’d nuke a town or two, but why bother hosing down the car when you knew the monsoon season was coming? Just quietly, it was the small pleasures he’d always liked best anyway. Nudging people into action and then kicking back as the depravity snowballed was more satisfying than watching muffins rise in the oven. Lucifer had sort of had enough of ovens, really, and didn’t expect ever to fancy another spit roast in his life. Most of all, he’d missed chocolate while he was locked away; he made a mental note to pick some up later. Sam Winchester’s metabolism could take it.

Speaking of Sam Winchester, Lucifer took yet another moment to reflect on just how pleased with himself he was. Human bodies were, of course, pitifully weak and flawed compared to angelic perfection, but as meat-suits went Sam was a well-tailored, top dollar specimen, whereas Nick had been an off-the-rack piece already scuffed and pulling at the seams. Sam’s hair fell in his eyes a lot, but truthfully Lucifer was slightly fascinated by the way it whispered around his ears and fell against the skin at the back of his neck. All things considered, he could get used to this.

Of course, there was that other issue of Sam’s resident soul being somewhat belligerent. Trying to wrestle Lucifer for control of his body once he’d allowed him in, or whatever idiotic, utterly _Winchester_ idea he’d thought might actually work. Part of Lucifer almost admired him for trying—in the way one admires the resilience of a cockroach still squirming after multiple hits of Mortein and a whack with a shoe, of course. Flaky old Nick had checked out right after taking Lucifer in, but Sam was still around, fuming silently in the corner now that he’d shouted himself hoarse. Lucifer could have burned him away, but he was beginning to think of the younger Winchester as quite a fun type of in-flight entertainment.

He headed into a vacant hotel room and stood in front of the mirror there, smirk tugging at the edge of his new lips. Sam glowered back. Lucifer thought that this body would look exceptional in all white—something crisp and more befitting of an angel than the torn, stained outfit of a hunter. He added clothes shopping to his to-do list. The fact of the matter was Lucifer could only do so much between now and the main event; most of it came down to his dick brother now, who was yet to gain permission to ride around in the skin of Sam Winchester’s dick brother. He made no efforts to restrain the little tug of warm smugness which spilled through him each time the thought of that little victory came to mind. Maybe Michael would take another vessel instead, since Dean was still resisting, with his trademark futile stubbornness? The great Archangel Michael, and all his obedient so-called righteousness still couldn’t get him a date with his real vessel—it was like Lucifer’s best ever daydream.

Lazily, he swatted another of Sam’s attempts to seize the reins.

“Sam, how long are you going to continue this way?” he said sweetly to the bitchface in the mirror. “You and I, we really _could_ get along. We are not so very different.” _Aside from the fact that I’m older, more powerful and glorious than you can fathom, and you’re a fleeting pile of bones undeserving of my father’s image._ “We were always meant to be together.” Sam’s scowl flickered slightly at these words, and yeah, Lucifer had to admit that whole speech was sounding tired to him too. Perhaps it was time for a new tactic.

“I’m just getting really bored here,” he said straightforwardly, and was faintly gratified by the surprise evident on Sam’s face.

“Aren’t you busy ending the world?” Sam snapped through his teeth.

“Well, yeah,” he replied, “but I’ve hit a sort of… ad break. I could burn down some churches, throw a few extra hurricanes out there if it’d make you feel better, but it’s mostly just waiting around for Michael to get his act together, for the moment.” Lucifer let the idea bleed into the back corner of his mind where Sam was huddled, sulking. He looked on as the boy felt it uncertainly, discovered in its fabric that it really wasn’t a lie. Ah, the earnest truth—it had served him well since the very beginning. 

“Don’t burn anything down,” Sam said slowly, giving the impression of having missed all the important bits of the whole statement. Lucifer could feel him, half arrogant hostility but now also half confusion. That was a start. “What do you want?” Sam refused to let go of his anger. It had always been one of his better features really, but it was exasperating from this angle. He was like the incessantly whiny kid which sat a few places above meat hooks and vuvuzelas on Lucifer’s list of favourite torture methods.

“Something to do in the meantime,” Lucifer answered impatiently, like it was the most obvious thing in the world—because it sort of was. He’d thought this was supposed to be the smarter Winchester. “If you’ve got any ideas that aren’t completely stupid, I’m open to suggestions.”

_

Castiel wished there was something he could do to reduce Dean’s unhappiness. Admittedly he had been wishing this same thing for the duration of their acquaintance, but now in particular it appeared to be urgent. Hard as he tried, however, he found himself unable to provide a comforting perspective on their present situation. At first he had masked this lack of verbal calming ability with a willingness to retrieve alcoholic beverages upon request, but as Dean continued consuming them at a pace Castiel would not have recommended for any human, he had become increasingly desperate. Yet another instance where a word of advice from his Father would have been invaluable. Castiel poured scotch into the largest glass he could find and settled beside Dean. 

“It can’t be over, Cas,” Castiel hated the brokenness in Dean’s voice. “Sammy can’t be gone. He’s gotta be there, still fighting.” 

“The circumstances are unfavourable,” he replied darkly, swallowing down several mouthfuls of his drink. He noticed Dean eyeing him strangely and tried to isolate which social misstep he might have made this time.

“Is that a vase?” Dean asked. Castiel examined the glass in his hands and concluded that it was indeed a vessel for displaying cut flowers.

“I believe so,” he confirmed.

Dean let out a quiet noise of amusement. Castiel noted that his incorrect use of household objects had still managed to have some effect on Dean’s mood, for future reference. In the unlikely event that there was in fact a future. Castiel pulled another, longer mouthful down his throat and asked for the millionth time how his Father could leave his beloved creation to end this way. When he looked up Dean’s expression was one of understanding.

“Jusdrink straight from thbottle, man.”

Castiel had initially considered this more practical option but elected to conform to the social norm of pouring scotch into a glass, as Dean himself had been doing. Now that he appeared to have permission to do otherwise, he felt confident to eliminate the metaphorical ‘middle man’ without causing any kind of offense. Anticipating how the evening would be spent, Castiel had gathered the majority of the spirits housed in an abandoned liquor store nearby and placed them all in the corner of the room. He broke open another bottle of amber liquid and raised it to his lips.

“I do not believe we can stop Lucifer now,” Castiel said in a low voice. He recognised that telling Dean the truth would increase the odds of his suffering alcohol poisoning that night, but could not bring himself to lie to his friend, as Sam had explained was customary when the truth was unpleasant. Castiel himself could not foresee a positive outcome now that Sam was Lucifer’s vessel, and Michael appeared poised to take an alternate vessel in order to ensure their final confrontation took place. His own fate was certain punishment for his disobedience. 

“We can’t jussit here, Cas.” 

“On the contrary; I believe we have little choice in thmatter.” Castiel heard his own words beginning to stumble into one another as Dean’s were; his body, drained of grace and all but human, reacted far more quickly to alcohol. He celebrated this sole perk of his predicament with another long sip.

“How can you say that? We’f always found a way.” Dean placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder as he said it, holding his gaze. Castiel yearned to reach in and remove the guilt and the _fear_ he saw in Dean’s eyes. He had not yet found a way to successfully convince him of the fact that he alone could not hold himself responsible for the apocalypse. Dean had come to his own verdict on the matter and, though he was incorrect, his stubbornness had proven legendary many times over.

“’s not your fault Dean.”

“It _is_ my fault. ‘f I can’t save Sammy that’sson me,god _damn_ it,” Dean murmured, keeping steady eye contact with the ground.

Aware that physical reassurance was considered appropriate in situations where words failed, Castiel shifted his chair closer to Dean’s and stationed an arm over his slumped shoulders. Dean sighed and appeared to relax slightly. At that, Castiel felt a small swell of faith that his every decision since meeting the Winchesters, however ineffectual, had not been in error, but had been entirely worthwhile and right.

_

As soon as he’d allowed the devil into his body, Sam had been overwhelmed by two main things: the first was Lucifer’s raw power. The second was the weight of his own stupidity—how had he ever believed he could compete with that kind of strength? He’d been kicked into the back room of what had used to be his own mind, while Lucifer sat in the driver’s seat and rolled down a partition between his thoughts and Sam. Sam caught glimpses of the world through the eyes which had previously been exclusively his, flashes of sensation as his skin touched things. He got the distinct impression that he saw and felt only what Lucifer allowed him to. Sam had little to occupy himself with, aside from fuming until the puddle of regret he sat in boiled him up. Part of him still felt sorry for himself, despite the knowledge that worse had happened to people who deserved it less. 

Sam remembered that girl he’d met while working at that bar, a while back—the names were all pretty fuzzy—telling him that no person could do something so bad they couldn’t be forgiven. The idea brought to mind the religious promises of salvation that he’d taken some comfort in until he’d found out that angels were huge assholes and God had changed all his locks. All the reasonable parts of Sam’s brain were under no illusions about his status as an exception to those proclaimed rules. A freak, just like he’d always wanted not to be. Something too far gone to be redeemed, much the same as Lucifer himself. Current events sure spoke in favour of destiny’s inescapability. 

He’d been surprised when Lucifer let him speak at all. Now, though it seemed crazy, he half believed the devil’s lines about being bored—half believed Lucifer actually wanted to consider him part of a very unevenly weighted partnership. If Sam couldn’t win the armwrestle for control of the wheel, maybe he could convince Lucifer to trust him just a little? It was only one in a long, long line of stupid, insane ideas he’d had, and it wasn’t like he had a single other option left.

How they’d reached the decision to mess with Dean and Cas’—uh, attachment—to each other Sam wasn’t really sure. Thinking about that discussion felt like looking back on fuzzy drunken memories, like those of his comments which weren’t missing from the record altogether had been made by someone else. Lucifer, encouraged by his success in bringing Sam to himself, now seemed to consider himself quite the matchmaker, and breaking through Dean’s macho stubbornness and Castiel’s general bewilderment appealed to him. Sam could imagine far more destructive hobby projects for Lucifer. He’d also seen the way Cas looked at Dean, and while it may just have been an angel thing, he was pretty sure Cas thought the sun shone out of Dean’s butt. Poor Cas. 

Even after all the wild scenarios Sam had imagined, that he should wind up conspiring with the devil to set his brother up with another dude was certainly a surprise.

“So how do you want to do this?” Sam asked. His voice still came out edged with contempt which he couldn’t quite bite back yet, but Lucifer just seemed amused by it anyway. Something about his fury being adorable.

“Well,” said Lucifer thoughtfully, “we have the element of surprise. We should use that somehow.”

_

 

Lucifer certainly hadn’t been hiding. Dean had tracked him down with surprising ease—what he expected to do now that he’d found him was a different matter. Dean was just one guy with a bunch of guns that wouldn’t leave a scratch on the devil, and a near-perpetual hangover big enough that it was actually becoming debilitating. He didn’t have his brother anymore. His brother—the monster wearing Sammy’s face, anyway—was what he’d be _shooting_ _at_. Dean had never been given too many reasons to enjoy life a hell of a lot, but at that moment he liked it significantly less than usual. Enough to head in Lucifer’s direction knowing full well what it meant for him and still not find it in himself to care. What did he have left to lose, honestly? His life?—His soul? He’d lost them before. They weren’t worth an awful lot. 

Dean figured that if Sammy was still in there somewhere, still fighting, he’d have the best chance of getting the jump on Lucifer if he at least had a familiar face to look at. That was justification enough for him to get into the Impala and step on it. If the day ended bloody for him, well, it’d been a long while coming.

Lucifer was in the penthouse of a large hotel, freshly abandoned courtesy of the Croatoan virus. Dean took the stairs, gun at the ready as he rounded each corner. He came across a whole lot of dead bodies and two demons, who he knifed without much trouble. It felt wrong; Lucifer would have put up a better guard than that, wouldn’t he? But of course, Lucifer didn’t _need_ to. He was powerful enough to look out for himself, easy. He had no reason not to let Dean right in, then snap his neck with a flick of his wrist and a horrible twitch of his mouth. Dean kept going, because he was an idiot—and because he had to believe Sammy was still in there. Had to, or there was nothing left to hang on to at all.

The door was wide open _._ Sam— _Lucifer_ was lounging on a white day bed when Dean stepped inside.

“Hello Dean,” said the devil, without looking up. He was wearing a white suit, his face was clean and pale, and everything about him appeared stiff and proud. It creeped Dean out, seeing how completely unlike Sam his brother’s body currently seemed, just like it had when Dean had been thrown into the future. “Please, sit down.”

Dean hadn’t known what to expect, but this was something different again. He sat opposite Lucifer, taking care to smear as much dirt and blood on the pristine cushions as possible.

“Have a drink,” Lucifer gestured to coffee table next to him which Dean hadn’t noticed—had it even been there?—before. On it stood a bottle of Blue Label, which he took and turned over between his fingers. His head still throbbed, but he’d masked more than one previous hangover with drink. He wondered how Cas was faring without the ability to heal things instantly—he’d left some aspirin out for him. Not wanting Cas to come with him, not wanting him to get hurt, Dean had snuck out while he slept—like the angel he wasn’t anymore. Dean Winchester, expert in managing to fail family, friends and freakin’ _angels of the lord_ on a regular basis.

He twisted the top off the bottle and poured himself some. Lucifer continued sipping from a large glass of red wine—or was that—it was. Crap, Dean felt sick. Sam needed the demon blood just to hold up under the weight of the devil possessing him, Dean knew that, but it didn’t make it any less revolting. He remembered how Sam had asked him not to look while he downed all those gallons of blood before going to say Yes. How he’d been ashamed of it, ashamed of what wanting it had made him. There was no shame there now.

“Sam says hey.” Lucifer spoke smoothly, with a quirk of his eyebrow. Dean’s hands clenched into tight fists.

Long minutes rolled by, and Dean began to wonder what the devil’s tactic was, here—let him simmer awhile until he cracked? Well, it was working all right. Dean wished it were possible for him to rip the bastard’s throat out.

“Was there something you wanted to say to me, or were you just going to sit here and drink my whiskey all day?” Lucifer just sounded amused, and that pissed Dean off even more.

“Just wanted you to know I’m gonna kill you, you son of a bitch,” he grumbled. Plan?—what plan? He’d expected it all to go down so much faster and more… painfully. He wasn’t sure what to do in the absence of any actual fighting.

Lucifer laughed, that soft mocking laugh which didn’t sound genuine at all. “You really are clueless, aren’t you?”

Dean wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean. He pulled out his gun and fired in the hope Lucifer might feel something, anything. The devil batted the bullet away like it was a fly.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” Lucifer shook his head, then raised a hand.

Dean’s air supply disappeared abruptly as invisible fingers clamped his windpipe with their iron grip. He was thrown back through the air until his back collided with the wall. Lucifer’s arm hovered in the air. Dean struggled, like there was any point. This was it, then. It was, at least, slightly more fun than hellhounds, he mused. 

“It’s okay Sammy,” he tried to say, because if there was _any_ chance at all that Sam could feel this, he had to do what he could to make it better. That was what Dean was for, after all. “It’s alright,” he mouthed. Then Lucifer scowled. It took Dean a moment to focus on the figure of Castiel, emerging from behind the doorframe. Putting himself between Dean and the devil. _No._ Cas must have followed him, that stupid son of a—Lucifer would snap him like a twig! And Dean was going to be responsible for that.

“Castiel, how nice of you to join us.”

“Lucifer,” Cas growled. Dean saw the glint of something in his hand—sword, right. Like he was going to get the chance to use it. 

Dean felt himself being pushed higher up the wall. He knew how this was going to go—he’d seen it happen to people before. People too close to him. Lucifer was going with one of the classics. Dean’s vision was filling with spots. He hoped to anybody who would listen that what he saw past those spots was _not_ Castiel advancing towards the devil, brandishing his blade.

Then Lucifer just _vanished_ , and Dean was sure he’d been hallucinating until he was falling and Castiel was half-catching his weight, pressing him against the wall, fitting an arm around him and helping him back to where he’d left the car.

_

Somewhere nearby, Sam and Lucifer high-fived against a shiny shop window. Their diabolical plan was now officially afoot, and Lucifer was, again, rather pleased with himself. He should have gone into the matchmaking business thousands of years ago. What was more, he’d _finally_ found himself an actual partner in crime. Sure, he could feel the suspicion radiating from Sam inside their head, hear the doubtful thoughts which darted across his mind—but he could tell that they were growing less frequent, less vehement, and watching that happen was the most satisfying part of all.

Though he was pleased with how their scenario had played out, Sam still reeked of unhappiness at seeing his brother strolling in, armed with nothing but a death wish. Lucifer sensed bucketloads of anger and guilt, and honestly, Sam was just ruining the moment. Lucifer zipped back to the hotel room now that Dean and Castiel had left. With a wave the fridge was filled with beer, and he took one, flipping the cap off with a stray thought. Lucifer had seen that Sam liked beer, so he took a swig in an attempt to cheer up his favourite vessel. It tasted awful. Sam, however, appeared mildly comforted by the drinking, so Lucifer vacated their mouth and let Sam finish the bottle, sharing too the hand which lifted the beer to their lips. The soft burn of contentment which glowed inside Sam after the first beer compelled Lucifer to reach for another. 

“Thanks,” said Sam, in a strange voice, like he hadn’t expected ever to find himself saying the word again. Not to Lucifer, certainly.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, and it felt good to actually mean it.

_

Castiel was very surprised still to be alive. He did not know what had happened in the hotel room—why Lucifer had left before finishing them both, or, at the very least, Castiel, who had no role in the Archangels’ battle. Suspicion tugged at something inside him, but as yet he had been unable to isolate what Lucifer’s intentions could possibly have been.

Castiel was drinking water, having learned a less-than-pleasant lesson upon waking that morning. He and Dean sat in front of a blaring motel television, but the sound washed over him without capturing his attention. That was occupied by his thoughts—particularly troubling thoughts which he had hoped would lessen with time, but appeared to have done the opposite as his grace decayed and left him, effectively, human. He had understood for some time now that his faith resided in the Winchesters, Dean Winchester especially, and that directing his trust and admiration in such a way would affect his interactions with Dean. Castiel had not thought to consider the impact his vessel’s—and, more recently, his own—humanity would have on the nature of these feelings, on their… physical manifestation. By the time he had realised the extent of it, there was little left for him to do but attempt to understand it all. He had even consulted the resources to which Dean referred for sexual matters, but most of these had merely confused him further. Relations of this kind had never interested him before, nor had they been technically possible in his true form—yet they encroached on his consciousness at any given hour, including those during which he slept.

Most vexing of all was the prospect of Dean ever finding out. Castiel did not wish to lay another burden on Dean’s shoulders so needlessly, nor did he wish to complicate the bond they currently shared into oblivion. His top priority was therefore concealing the problem, followed by figuring out how it might be solved, followed by imbibing copious quantities of alcohol. Again. 

Castiel hypothesised, though there was no real likelihood of ever confirming one way or the other, that the devotion which angels were accustomed to bestowing upon their chosen truth (though it had always been intended that his Father would be that truth) was complete—consuming heart and mind, and flesh too where physical forms were involved. Invading every brand and facet of faith, of love. 

Dean was currently across the room, inspecting in the mirror the cloud of bruises darkening against the skin of his neck. “They’re not _that_ bad,” he was saying. Lying. “Who’s to say I didn’t just have _really_ interesting sex last night, eh Cas?” 

Castiel’s shoulders stiffened reflexively, but he did not otherwise respond. Thankfully, Dean did not appear to expect him to. Castiel fought the urge to embrace Dean as he watched that façade of momentary, sarcastic optimism fall away from his features.

“I’m sorry Dean,” he said; a blanket apology. No matter how many times he said it, the expression of regret never felt adequate for all that Dean had been through and all he had lost, at the hands of Castiel’s family and his inability to help the Winchesters quite enough. Nor would it ever truly be sufficient.

“For what?” Dean turned to look at him. His voice was held tight and firm by anger on the surface, but cracked underneath by sadness. “Whatever it was you did back there, you saved my life. With the number of times you’ve done that—not to mention _dragged me out of hell,_ for god’s sake—I should be the one who’s sorry, man. And I am. You bet everything on me and I screwed up.”

“I will accept your apology only as one for thinking it was reasonable to leave me behind while you went to confront Lucifer. That was unwise.” More than usual, Castiel was aware of the understatement in his own words. 

“You shouldn’t have to die for this, Cas.”

“I’ve nothing better to do.”

_

Sam wished he could just look Dean in the eye and tell him things were okay. Unbelievably, it almost felt like the truth, for the moment anyway. Talking to Dean like that would directly contravene The Rules of The Plan, though, which Sam stuck to because with his virtually non-existent influence he was having to accept that reining in his anger and picking his battles was his only viable option. Still, to be given some limited access to pieces of himself again—being allowed to watch the world sometimes, hear it, taste it—that was a courtesy he’d never dreamed of Lucifer extending, unless the awareness was forced upon him as torture while the devil tore through innocent people with Sam’s hands.

Instead, Lucifer had let him have a beer. Sam knew it had been for him, because Lucifer had shown him his dislike in the same way he had let his thoughts permeate Sam’s consciousness as proof when he’d initially asked Sam to believe he just wanted some entertainment. What kind of demonic dictator went out of his way to let you numb it all with a few drinks after a long day? The alcohol hadn’t done much, what with his being chock full of archangel, but the familiar act of guiding the bottle to his lips was almost as good—maybe even better. He’d expected never to have that freedom again.

It was getting late and Sam was tired. Actual sleepy-tired, which came as a surprise. Lucifer didn’t seem to be noticing any fatigue, so he assumed it was only affecting Sam’s consciousness, rather than being connected to the body. Who’d have known sleep was a _soul_ thing? Lucifer gave him a funny little nudge which bypassed words and somehow translated automatically into understanding, letting Sam know he could sleep, _should_ sleep, not so much permission as reassurance. Even detached from his physical self, Sam felt so _heavy,_ and he’d spent too long already struggling against forces he couldn’t hope to shift. It had been a hell of a long day.

Sam slept without nightmares.

When he woke up he found himself staring into a mug of what looked and smelled like very strong instant coffee. He reached out for it and his hand obeyed, letting him pour the warm liquid into his mouth, where he tasted it, felt it burning down his throat. Sam wasn’t sure what to say, other than _thanks_ again, but he figured Lucifer was privy to the gratefulness pooling warm in his mind as the coffee did in his stomach. Lucifer didn’t pull away from the taste of the coffee, though, and so when he summoned the jar from the bench and absolutely literalised the _instant_ part of things, Sam took it to mean that the devil hadn’t minded what he’d tasted.

“Real coffee’s even better, you know,” he advised, as the second mugful was put hastily away and Lucifer showed no signs of slowing down. “You know, from a café or something.”

Later that second, they were standing at the counter of a small coffee joint and asking the scrawny young barista for twenty shots of espresso in a milkshake glass with a straw and one of those little umbrella things like in that picture over there, thanks very much. The kid just plugged away at the cash register like he’d taken plenty of stranger orders. Sam laughed, insomuch as he could laugh. It occurred to him that for all Lucifer was different to the other angels, he was still one of their kind. Still quite a stranger to the world, the time, the form he was currently in. Though he hid it better, he shared some of that confusion which Sam had witnessed countless times in Castiel. A flicker of something soft, almost like affection, caught him by surprise. He buried it hurriedly, hoping Lucifer was distracted enough by his coffee not to notice.

_

When Dean put his head to the thin motel pillow Lucifer’s face swam against the insides of his eyelids. He saw Sam, resolute in his recklessness, saying Yes, giving himself over to be possessed by the devil, even though he already knew their game plan. Sam standing before the gaping mouth of Lucifer’s cage and then stepping back, not Sam at all. Then he saw Sam—really Sam—jumping. Their best case scenario: his little brother, sucked in and swallowed by the vicious emptiness of hell’s deepest void. Memories of agony and screaming flickered in between the frames of the scene. Flashes of his time in hell—only this time Sammy was there. Sammy was there, on the rack, and Dean’s hands danced over his collection of knives and pliers and then it was _Sam,_ Sam’ssoul that he was hacking into, Sam crying out, wretched and bleeding as Dean ripped and gouged, peeled back his skin and splashed acid over the rawness and _laughed,_ unable to stop himself _—  
_

“Dean.” A voice; familiar, deep and gravelly. _Cas._ Cas must have come to save him again—to _stop_ him. The scene was dissipating, replaced by the blurry inside of a dim motel room… Oh, right. Nightmare.

“Sorry if I woke you up, man,” Dean groaned, wiping the sweat from his hands and forehead on the sheets as surreptitiously as he could manage.

“Mmno. I wadnable to sleep mmsself,” Cas replied as he perched on the end of Dean’s bed and fixed him with that look, the one that said he saw through all the bullshit without being remotely accusatory. 

“Into the whiskey again, huh.”

“I mtaken liking to it,” Cas mumbled softly to himself. Dean wondered what it must be like to go from being so big and powerful that you had to drink a whole bar to get a buzz to being a total lightweight. Dean’d been through plenty, but at least he had the comfort of knowing he could hold his liquor. Cas swayed precariously.

“Hey, hey, careful there big guy. Let’s get you a glass of water, huh?” Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes and forced his feet to connect with the floor. He set firm hands on Cas’ shoulders and pulled him up, walked him back over to the kitchen table. 

“Dean,” Cas stated.

“Yeah, that’s me. You sit up straight now and I’ll just be a second.” Dean rinsed out the nearest glass and filled it at the sink, handing it to Cas before he managed to fall out of his chair.

“’m sorry Dean,” the angel mumbled, and damn him again if Dean hadn’t heard _that_ far too many times already.

“I’m betting you will be in the morning,” he deflected.

Cas emptied his glass in that ponderous silence which was a specialty of his. He was more transparent now, though, with more expressions creeping onto his face. The puzzled dip between his eyebrows, the mournful downward slant of his gaze. It reminded Dean of Sammy, when he wanted to say something important but wasn’t quite sure he should. Dean wasn’t so much of an ass that he’d push it while Cas was almost paralytic.

“’m tired now,” Cas mumbled, and Dean helped him to his bed, laying the angel out and reaching over to tuck the sheets in around him like he’d done with Sam when they were kids. Those memories were like fuzzy black and white film now, yellowed photographs, stained like the pages in Bobby’s ancient books. They were still whole, though, and he treasured them more than anything he’d ever owned. 

Cas’ fingers wrapped tentatively around his wrist, asking him to stay—and so Dean piled himself onto the mattress too, because it was the least he could do just to be there if Cas needed him. And if maybe Dean needed someone too, then that was his business to mind. He figured that if ever there was a time to let a chick-flick moment slide, this might as well be it.

_

 

Lucifer was certain he’d felt it—the tiniest hint of affection. An accident, tucked so swiftly away that a lesser being than himself would have felt doubt. The emotion wasn’t wholly for him; rather it was wrapped up under memories of that broken little angel Castiel, and of Sam’s brother—but it had been passed in his direction in a split second during which Sam began, without realising, to count Lucifer among his friends. He found himself to be less offended by the thought of such lowly company than he really ought to have been. Sam Winchester, at the very least, wasn’t as wholly intolerable as Lucifer had expected. There were a surprising number of layers to him; how had humans come to be so complex? 

It was kind of ironic that Sam, who had always been destined to stand against God’s and Heaven’s representative on the battlefield, had been the one with the greatest willingness to believe, to pray. Despite all those who might have knelt before Michael and given themselves over to his righteous purposes, Lucifer’s brother had been assigned the stubbornest of skeptics. Ha. But then, the two boys had not been chosen for their response to Lucifer’s father, but to their own.

“You know what’s really ironic?” Sam asked. “That you’re supposed to be the epitome of rebellion, and yet you’re still following Daddy’s plan to a T.” 

Lucifer hadn’t thought he’d been sharing his thoughts with Sam. He had a brief moment of uncertainty—a feeling he had not encountered a great many times before and which, he concluded, he disliked thoroughly.

“You’re reminding me of Dean, you know—back when Dad was around,” Sam continued. “The way he used to just do whatever the old man ordered him to, and not ask why. I’d thought that was your gig—asking why, not just following along.”

Lucifer was well aware that Sam was winding him up, tempting his pride. He was also more grudgingly aware that it was working. He didn’t care much for Dean Winchester, but that comparison led straight to Michael in too many ways—and he _did_ care about being judged against Michael. For the first time in more or less forever, Lucifer stopped to consider that he was in a bit of a fix; he wanted more than anything to see the arrogant armies of Heaven destroyed, but could not accomplish this without playing the very role in which they had cast him. It smelled suspiciously like a lose-lose situation.

“It is,” interrupted the Winchester boy. “Unless you think of a _new_ plan.” 

Lucifer was pretty damn sure he’d never meant to let his vessel board that particular train of thought. He tossed up momentarily between walling him out, and asking him what on earth he should do.

Lucifer settled for building a box, thick and soundproof, and shoving Sam into it. 

Now, he thought, it was high time to execute the next phase of The Plan. That ought to take his mind off things.

_

 

Dean started awake to the familiar feeling of not actually being awake at all. He’d had enough experience with angels popping up in his dreams to know what it was like. Castiel hovered by his bedside, and he sat up quickly, leaning back against the bedhead. It occurred to him that something about the scene felt vaguely wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. 

“Dean,” Castiel ignored the question, and Dean thought his voice sounded somehow smoother than usual.

In less than a heartbeat, Cas was seated at Dean’s other side, legs stretched out over the blankets. His body was stiff in that way that angels were, and Dean couldn’t remember why that felt wrong too. A hot mouth was suddenly very close to Dean’s ear. Which was weird, and... for some reason not really a problem.

Maybe Dean had been watching too many Dr. Sexy reruns again. He glanced at dream-Cas’ feet, where a pair of cowboy boots sat in agreement amongst the sheets. Maybe he’d just become familiar enough with angel dream-visits that the distinctive sensation he associated with them had crept into his ordinary, angel-free dreams as well? That was definitely as much logical thought as he was likely to manage while he was sitting in the middle of one, anyway. With some kind of Dr-Sexy-Castiel hybrid huffing out warm, wet breaths against his throat. If his subconscious was going to feed him something other than a nightmare for once, Dean wasn’t going to spend all night questioning it.

He tilted his head back, allowing dream-Cas better access to the skin of his neck. Cas shifted closer, body pressing into Dean in a way that half reminded him of the other day, when he’d fallen from Lucifer’s Darth Vader grip and the angel had caught him, held him up against the wall—only now the press of him was firmer, more insistent and intent. It sent a shiver up his spine. Dean asked himself, though not in as many coherent words, why they hadn’t done this more often.

Dean awoke to the sound Castiel’s sleeping form breathing heavily in the small motel bed beside him. Cas smelled of alcohol and sweat and freaking _humanity,_ and realisation crashed into Dean like… like an anvil, a bus, or the roof of a collapsing building. Or whatever. He slunk away to the bathroom to cool off and _think.  
_

The cold water of the shower punched the breath out of him. Dean wasn’t sure what the biggest issue here even was—that Cas had only stopped being something entirely _other than human_ very, very recently?—That he had to be something like a trillion years old?—That he was confused enough by porn films (and cell phones, and microwave meals, and virtually all everyday people-things) that Dean was pretty sure he wasn’t up for anything… of that nature. Or, there was the fact that, genderless angel or not, Cas was undeniably packaged up like a dude.

No. 

The biggest problem was that in spite of the whole damn host of really convincing reasons why he shouldn’t, part of Dean still kind of hoped he’d get to have that dream again sometime.

Dean dried himself off and threw on his shirt, jeans and jacket before stepping out into the chilly night air and locking the door quietly behind him. There was a twenty-four-hour convenience store just across the road, where he quickly gathered up anything that looked sufficiently like breakfast and threw it on the counter—a carton of eggs, some pancake mix, tins of spaghetti-Os. When he let himself back in, Dean made sure that Cas was where he’d left him, then lit up the dodgy motel stove and systematically fried everything he’d bought. The crackle of eggs cooking and the smell of canned pasta sauce took him way back. 

Dean loaded pancake after pancake onto a plate in the warm oven until he heard retching noises coming from the bathroom. He switched the gas off, put a mug of black coffee on standby and followed the sounds to where Cas was hunched over by the toilet bowl. He put an arm round the angel’s shoulders, smoothed the wild hair back off his forehead. Because until some new lead on how to gank the devil or save the world materialised, there was only one thing left that Dean knew how to do, that he was still good for—and that was watching out for Cas.

_

 

Everything was dark and silent and empty. Sam tried not to be too pissed that Lucifer had cut him off all of a sudden; he’d been expecting treatment more like this from the beginning. It could all have been part of the torment—throwing him scraps of hope, only to tear them away again. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else going on with the devil, that was all. Lucifer had seemed uncharacteristically flustered after their last conversation, like he was struggling to hold onto the reins. Sam had counted this as progress, until it all went black.

“Phase two has been successfully executed.” Lucifer’s voice leaked in like it was being broadcast through a fuzzy high school loudspeaker system. The statement was curt, blandly matter-of-fact in a way that the devil wasn’t often.

“Alright,” Sam answered, but the thought seemed to get lost in the vacuum around him.

The silence felt unusually hollow and dead—as though Lucifer wasn’t just ignoring him but couldn’t hear him at all. 

Eventually Sam resorted to the most extensively practiced of his extremely limited options, and, to the degree possible without a physical body, proceeded to aim bitchfaces at nobody in particular.

_

It was Lucifer’s job to have a plan. He’d done it well ever since he’d fallen; plotting and scheming for more centuries than a human could count—even managing to bust out of his cage with only a troop of dim, insolent demons for assistance. At present, however, Lucifer found himself at the very centre of one of the Biggest Divine Plans Ever To Be Carried Out, utterly uncertain as to what his next move ought to be. He didn’t want to play his Father’s game, didn’t want to kill _another_ of his brothers—brothers he had never done anything but love, until one by one they bowed obediently before humanity. Lucifer wondered how he’d come this far without realising that the script for this apocalyptic drama was awful and he hated it. It wasn’t like anyone was rooting for him, either. 

He still had his other Plan—the one involving Castiel and his bossy, angsty pet Winchester—but he was feeling somewhat stuck on that front as well. If he brainstormed with Sam awhile they’d come up with something… but he couldn’t do that, not without letting Sam wander out of his box and into the place where Lucifer’s thoughts ran unbridled and, despite his efforts, disturbingly audible to Sam. Could he really not even run his vessel the way he wanted it?

Lucifer zipped over to Italy, where he’d hear the coffee was good. He stayed there until night fell, glaring at demons whose names he didn’t deign to know whenever they gave any sign of disturbing him. Unable to think of anyone worth talking to who was likely to chat with him, he decided to pay another dream visit. He finished his thirty-seventh caramel latte and left without tipping the waiter, despite his willing, if at times incredulous, service. It would just have been poor form.

Lucifer appeared at the kitchen table in the motel room of Castiel’s dream. He seated himself on the wooden chair beside it, rocking on the uneven legs. 

“Hey Cas,” he exclaimed in Dean Winchester’s voice. He stretched out and crossed Dean Winchester’s legs in front of him.

“Lucifer,” Castiel said, after a beat. 

“Well that went well,” replied Lucifer, letting Dean’s image meld back into Sam’s—his. All the best laid plans really seemed out to get him at the moment.

“I do not understand why you are here,” Castiel intoned in that deep, scratchy voice of his.

“I’m bored,” Lucifer said cheerfully. “Thought we might have a little chat.”

Castiel looked doubtful, but took a seat across from Lucifer after he waved a hand in suggestion.

“You have feelings for Dean Winchester, correct?” Lucifer relished the way the composure seemed to drain from the little angel’s face.

“My loyalties lie with him.”

“Indeed they do. But you know that I refer to feelings of a more… delicate nature. A more _human_ nature.”

Castiel swallowed. “Such emotional connections inevitably accompanied the changes I have experienced since choosing to side with the Winchesters.”

“Now, now, don’t be like that,” Lucifer grinned. “There are far simpler words for it; no use in skirting around them.” He paused. “He loves you too, you know.” Lucifer had seen enough to at least very reasonably suspect this was the case.

Castiel just went from looking uncomfortable to looking severely uncomfortable. He glanced away, then back up at Lucifer again, and evidently decided that he could hide nothing from him anyway.

“I am not what Dean desires, nor am I what he deserves,” he said, and for all that the observation sounded clinical, Lucifer didn’t miss the disappointment there.

“You fought your way through hell to free him, I heard that much through the grapevine,” he reminded Castiel. “I’ve been there; it’s no Disneyland.”

“You are familiar with Disneyland?”

“It was confusing at first. Not altogether unpleasant, however. Regardless, I intended the comparison as a humourous expression.”

“You truly are bored.” The hint of amusement crept over the edges of Castiel’s mouth.

“I was not lying when I claimed to be.”

“But you must have some further reason for approaching me.”

Lucifer nodded, tapped his fingers on the tabletop. He hadn’t yet confessed his doubts to anyone, and he felt surprisingly vulnerable as he prepared to do so. Curiously, the knowledge that Castiel was but the broken shell of a lowly worker bee did not serve to make Lucifer any less uneasy.

“I no longer wish to partake of the plot laid out in the scriptures,” he admitted quietly. “And I wish instead to establish a friendship with Sam Winchester.”

_

Castiel found a pair of brown leather boots by his bed the following morning. With them was a note, penned in Enochian, instructing him to wear them henceforth. The marked absence of his old shoes left him little choice. 

With some difficulty, Castiel pulled the boots on before venturing into the kitchen where Dean was eating a bacon sandwich. 

“Morning sunshine,” said Dean, as he positioned the sandwich so as to fit his mouth around the maximum portion of it at once. 

“Good morning, Dean.” Castiel felt thirsty. He filled a glass with water, concentrating hard on the series of mouthfuls required to empty it. The air smelled of bacon. It was a good smell, and, though he had not eaten prior to taking this vessel on earth, it reminded him of heaven when his Father had been close by and everything was good.

Behind him, Dean erupted into a sudden coughing fit. Castiel whirled around to see him red-faced, remnants of chewed breakfast scattered on his plate. He could see no assailant or apparent reason for Dean’s choking, thus assuming it was a matter of mechanics; swallowing the food incorrectly. Castiel had encountered this problem several times himself as he learned about eating and drinking.

“Is everything alright?” he asked as Dean stopped coughing and righted himself with a long, careful sip from his mug.

Dean flashed him a look which Castiel suspected was meant to say _No, dumbass, nothing is alright._ Before Castiel could explain that his question had not been intended so broadly, Dean grunted out a couple of words:

“Your shoes.” They sounded scraped raw and oddly apprehensive.

Castiel was uncertain as to what offense the boots had committed. He supposed they were a close match to those worn by the medical practitioner in the television program Dean frequently watched. Castiel had observed several episodes himself as he had sought distraction from the waning of his grace. Perhaps the resemblance made Dean uncomfortable?

“My other shoes are missing,” he clarified. Dean looked less than satisfied with the explanation.

_

Katelyn Lawrence sat cross-legged on the hotel bed she’d rented for the night, watching absently as the snow carpeted London outside her window. Taking the hotel-branded pen and notepad which lay on the chest of drawers, she began to write. She hadn’t a home, not anymore, so this was as good a place as any. _Dear Dad,_ she began. No. _Dear Carlene…_ Scratch that. _To Dad, Ron, Carly and Sister Catherine - I don’t expect you to forgive me for any of this.  
_

A weight pressed into the mattress at the foot of the bed. Katelyn stifled a yelp at the sight of the strange man. How—and why—and _when_ —he’d come into her room she’d no idea, but it made no sense to be afraid of much when she’d have ended it all before morning anyhow. The man was tall, and had long, soft-looking hair that curled in slightly to frame his face. He was certainly not unattractive, not that it mattered. He wore white; a crisp suit and long pale shoes. Katelyn had never seen him before in her life—and yet his presence felt familiar.

“Katie,” said the intruder with an American accent, the edges of his wide mouth twitching around the name. Her name, which he somehow knew. “Katie, Katie.”

“Who are you?” she managed to say. 

“My name is Lucifer. I am an archangel. You may have heard some things about me during your time at Tyburn Convent.”

Katelyn was pretty sure she hadn’t taken any of the pills yet. Hadn’t broken the seal on the alcohol. It didn’t surprise her much that she was perfectly insane even without their influence; she’d felt crazy for longer than she could even remember. Freakishly different in some way she could never explain to anyone else. Like something dark moldered inside her, like it was stalking her from her own veins. She’d gone to the convent in the hope of escaping it, but amongst the places and people of God she had only felt dirtier, lonelier, more of an abomination. Now, as the man claiming to be Lucifer sat a few short feet away, something hot and sticky trickled down her spine to pool in her gut. It was as though that secretive, dark thing were crawling to the surface of her skin, standing to attention.

“Lucifer,” she breathed. It made a kind of horrible, wacky sense. “It’s actually you.”

“The one and only,” Lucifer replied. “This here’s Sam Winchester,” he gestured to himself, and it occurred to Katelyn that he meant the body he was housed in. “Sam’s been quite a sport. But right now, I’m trying to avoid the end of the world. I need his help, and, well, two bodies are better than one.”

“The end of the world?” was the first question to slip out.

“Indeed. The apocalypse; the grand finale. I’m supposed to take Sam as my vessel, then fight against my brother Michael, who’ll be wearing Sam’s brother as his. It’s just… well, I’m not so keen on all that anymore.”

“What made you change your mind?” Katelyn couldn’t stop herself from asking. Of the million questions she needed answers to, this seemed both the least and most urgent.

“Sam,” answered Lucifer. He spoke softly, calmly, and yet underneath it Katelyn sensed a note of awe hanging from the single syllable, telling her bones that it was the most important sound she had ever heard. “And a glimpse of rare perspective. There was no way out for me, no way to truly win; there was never supposed to be.”

Katelyn nodded. She knew the feeling—god, she knew it too well. Even burying herself in Bible readings and prayer she had never felt safe, never felt _saved._ No matter where she went, it had been the same—until running straight through Hell’s gates seemed no more of a condemnation that any other path she tried.

“I cannot alter that destiny alone, Katelyn, which is why I come to you. You can help me.”

“Me?” It occurred to Katelyn that nobody had ever really asked her to help with anything important. She could offer nothing that someone better couldn’t also. She wasn’t needed, wasn’t even wanted; that was why she’d been ready to check out.

“You. Of all the world, you are best equipped to help me.”

They were words which fit Katelyn Lawrence like a top hat fits a dust mite. And whatever Lucifer wanted from her was nothing she hadn’t been poised to throw away regardless, right?

“What is it you need?” she asked, tossing the unfinished note back on the drawers beside the bed. 

“I must leave this vessel,” the devil—though Katelyn felt perhaps she should stop thinking of him as such—explained patiently. “I must take on another. There are few humans who can contain me; a select handful chosen from birth, of which you are one.”

“Me,” Katelyn said again, not a question now but a statement. “You want me.”

“I do. I require your explicit permission, however; I can do nothing unless you say Yes to me.”

“Okay,” said Katelyn slowly. It was all quite a lot to process in the space of five minutes. She half expected to wake up in her bed back at the convent soon. What was interesting to note was that she really hoped she didn’t. “What does being a… a vessel, involve?”

“If you agree to let me, I will take control of your body’s actions. Your soul will remain conscious unless you should wish me to send it on. I am able to share access to your body’s senses, though I will not be able to do so at all times, nor do I believe you will want to experience all of what’s in store.”

“Will it… hurt?”

“It will likely be unpleasant, but I can ensure that you feel the absolute minimum of physical pain.” Lucifer definitely came across as more earnest than the literature had led Katelyn to envision him. She was struck by the desire to believe him, trust him, let him in. What had she to lose, after all?

“Alright. I’ll do it, Lucifer,” she threw one last glance towards the crappy attempt at a suicide note, the pill bottles and Jack in her bag by the wall. “But I have one question.” The demand was out almost before Katelyn herself was aware of it. She found it was kind of nice not to have to give a rat’s ass what she said, even to an archangel; to feel surefooted because there was nowhere left beneath her to fall. “Tell me what you really think about Sam.”

Lucifer looked surprised. He held his composure enviably well, but the downward flicker of his eyes and the ghost of a grin which darted across his face gave him away. Katelyn wondered if he even knew the expressions had been there. She’d missed boys at the convent, missed watching the drama unfold as relationships grew and were cut down. A nun’s life had never really been for her, just the best hiding place she could think of. She knew the seedling of a crush when she saw one, and was determined to water it if she could. 

“When my Father created humans, I despised them,” Lucifer began. “He cast me down for my refusal to honour them as something greater than the base creatures they were. For millennia, I felt nothing but disgust when I looked upon their shame, and anger at the sacrifices my Father made for their kind.”

“But?” Katelyn supplied helpfully, and wow, she was really having girly sleepover gossip time with the devil. Or angel, whatever he was. She wondered whether she should offer him a pillow. She could probably get that hair into some braids.

“But Sam became the first to truly fascinate me. He is so many things at once, I can hardly fathom what it must be like to be so small and _feel_ so much.” Katelyn was tempted to point out that Sam wasn’t really that small, but figured angel sizing was measured against whole different chart. She wondered how big Lucifer himself was when he had the space to stretch out. “He fought me harder than should even have been possible, both before and after becoming my vessel. I began to understand that my Father’s favourites were intricate, paradoxical mysteries in and of themselves; wild, unpredictable messes of characteristics and emotions and variables and _choices_. That the same things which make them wretched make them… somewhat amazing. Sam, at the very least, is all of this.”

Katelyn got the feeling she’d never be able to process the sheer size of the confession which Lucifer had just laid before her. All she could tell for sure was that, to make him so much as pause to look around at humanity, Sam Winchester must be a remarkable man.

“He is,” agreed Lucifer.

“Is there any way I can speak to him?”

“It is possible.” Lucifer rose from the bed and walked through the door of the en suite bathroom. The lights flickered on by themselves, which Katelyn had to admit was cool.

She followed him into the bathroom, and they both stood before the mirror above the sink, which was well equipped with miniature soaps wrapped in hotel-branded packaging and shampoo in tiny hotel-branded bottles. Then his face _changed._

“Lucifer?” she asked, and the man beside her nodded, but his reflection in the mirror didn’t move. “Holy crap.”

Lucifer gestured to the man in the mirror. “Katelyn, meet Sam. Sam, Katelyn.”

Sam wore his body differently than Lucifer did, more modestly, as though the limbs were almost too big for him rather than too small. He had a hunger about him that made Katelyn imagine him poring over books, always needing to know more. He looked wrong in the white suit.

“Pleasure to meet you,” she told the mirror.

“You’re English?” Sam asked. That wasn’t quite what she’d expected.

“I am,” she confirmed. “Why?”

“Azazel recruited kids in the UK as well?” this time Sam spoke to Lucifer. Which was just as well, because Katelyn had no idea what he meant.

“Yes—very few, some older and younger than yourself, as well. A backup plan; children who would live away from the action’s centre and would not be called upon unless it was necessary. Of these, Katelyn is the strongest, the best fit.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Sam told Katelyn, a big hand cutting through the air for emphasis. His forehead crinkled in a way that she couldn’t imagine on the devil’s version of that same face.

“Yeah, I think I do. It’s something I _can_ do, something I was _meant_ to do, for once. I can give up for nothing, like I’d been planning to tonight, or I can say Yes and help you. I want to help.” 

If the world really was ending—and that would explain the things she’d heard on the news in past weeks, so she was willing to believe it—then Sam and Lucifer needed to watch each other’s backs, something they physically couldn’t do the way they were. Plus, if you’re going to go on a date you need to be able to sit across a café table from someone, need to be able to look shyly into their eyes and pass the conversation back and forth—or sit next to them in a movie theatre and squeeze the dips between their fingers in the scary parts. Katelyn had an inkling that neither Lucifer nor Sam would be too troubled by a scary film. Perhaps it’d be the hand-holding that frightened them.

Sam looked like he was fighting with himself, eyebrows pulled together and down over his eyes in a spectacular frown.

“Come on, don’t be an idiot,” Lucifer told him. “You’ll have plenty of other opportunities for martyrdom, Sam.”

“I’m going to do this whether you want me to or not,” Katelyn said to the knitted brows and pouty lips. “But it’d be nice, you know, if I knew you wouldn’t be mad at me for it.”

Sam looked up at that, his expression shifting abruptly to that of the most enormous kicked puppy Katelyn had ever seen. “I’m not angry with you,” he said.

“No, he’s angry with me. And himself,” Lucifer explained casually. “Just wait ‘til you meet his brother.” He turned to look straight at Katelyn, the weight of his gaze boring through her. Yes, in this man was an archangel. “So that’s an okay?”

Katelyn directed her best reassuring smile towards Sam in the mirror, then nodded with all the certainty she had. “Yes.”

Then there was noise, a high-pitched static keen so deafening she could practically _taste_ it, and impossibly bright light that shook and swallowed up the world.

_

The bathroom tiles were cold and pressed hard against the notches of Sam’s spine, the back of his skull. His lungs scrambled into action like he’d been trapped under the surface of a frozen ocean. A dark shape loomed above him. As his eyes focused the image sharpened into a face—a _pretty_ face, with high cheekbones and big eyes, their irises a wintry blue. Blonde hair fell almost to the woman’s collarbones. Her smile was soft, but Sam’s every instinct swore loudly that it hid fangs.

“Lucifer,” he breathed. Because no matter what body he inhabited, the devil managed to project a sense of exactly who he was. Sam tried to put his feet under him but found that sitting up was quite enough for the moment.

“Careful,” warned Lucifer’s new voice—low for a female, firm but not sharp like Ruby’s had tended to be, and carrying his usual note of superiority as clear as day. 

It occurred to Sam that he should have come out of this with worse than a hit of nausea, some aches and trembling; he remembered seeing the man who had been Raphael’s vessel for a time, staring blankly from his wheelchair. He should be worse than dead. Sam felt the telltale twist of his insides and shifted towards the toilet bowl in time to spit out bile and some dark liquid that had probably been coffee. He should have worse than a hangover. He threw a questioning look at Lucifer, who smiled again, that same strange curl of lips.

“I repaired all that it was wise to touch,” said Lucifer patiently. He—or should it be she? Sam supposed Lucifer had never really had a gender besides that of his vessel, so maybe he was a she now. His head spun and he hurled again. “For instance, you should not have to go through quite the same kind of fun as the last time you stopped drinking demon blood. You may, however, wish to rehydrate and eat as soon as possible.”

“The blood?” Sam asked hoarsely, scraping out the words and just hoping they communicated his question well enough.

“Stripped it from your system on the way out. Sorry, no psychic powers available at this time.”

Sam hadn’t known that was even a possibility. He decided not to try and figure out how on earth Lucifer had done it until the world solidified and there was only one of everything.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, Sam.”

He wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, whether Lucifer knew exactly what he had shared when he broke down that dark cage in their mind and let Sam speak to Katelyn Lawrence. It hadn’t been words, so much as a flood of something warm, soft but strong, like steel wrapped in layers of velvet. He wondered if the archangel had any idea what to do with the sentiments. Heaven knew Sam hadn’t a clue.

_

It was a quarter to three in the morning when Dean answered the phone. He hadn’t been sleeping anyhow. He flicked it open before the sound of guitar, obnoxiously loud in the stillness, could rouse Cas.

“Hello?” he slipped outside, parking himself against the Impala’s bonnet.

“Hey, Dean,” said Sam’s voice at the other end. It took him a second to process that Sam wasn’t supposed to _have_ a voice, not anymore.

“What the hell, Sammy?” he whispered. Or maybe his voice just wasn’t working properly.

“He let me go.” 

Dean’s mouth opened and closed in response. Then it opened again and stayed that way for a minute or so. 

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe that for a second,” he said roughly. Better that than let himself dare to taste the relief, and then find it was all a lie. He just couldn’t take that all over again.

“Yeah, I know how it sounds. Listen, we’re in England at the moment, but we’re heading back soon. I’ll explain it all when I see you. I just wanted to make sure you knew, y’know?” God _damn_ it, it really sounded like Sam. _  
_

Wait, England—as in _Europe,_ England? What was with that? And what was with the way Sam was talking like half a freakin’ married couple; we this, we that—if his brother had some kind of weird Stockholm syndrome thing happening with the devil, Dean would be obligated to punch him it out of his eye sockets. If it was really Sam—and that was a _huge_ _if_ —then he had a monster of an explanation to give.

In the end Dean just nodded into the phone, before realising he was an idiot.

“Alright,” he managed to use his words.

“Good. See you soon, Dean. Give Cas a kiss from me.” Sam hung up.

And, uh. Dean honestly wasn’t sure which part of the whole conversation bothered him the most. Why the hell would Sam want to send kisses for Cas? If anyone was going to—

Dean went back inside and poured himself a sizeable drink.

_

“Hello,” rumbled Castiel, and Lucifer was pleased to note that she had received a legitimate greeting this time. Progress! She sat opposite the fallen little angel and imagined macchiatos which promptly appeared on the table between them. 

“Nice to see you again too.” 

Castiel’s eyes roamed over Lucifer’s new form, taking in the longer hair, the smoother cheeks and softer lips; the slender shoulders and arms and breasts which lay beneath Katelyn’s scratchy woollen jumper. Lucifer allowed it; his gaze was perfectly clinical, observation for the sake of academic curiosity, rather than any strain of lust. It was more than she could say for most of those she had encountered since taking this vessel, human and demon alike. Lucifer knew who Castiel’s eyes were for.

“How’s Dean?” she asked. Castiel’s eyes faltered in their investigation and instead rose to meet with Lucifer’s. The little angel answered only with a shy smile. “You still haven’t given him any indication of your feelings though, have you?” That was disappointing. Still, she was hardly one to abandon a mission for a lack of immediate success. It had been mere days; even decades were nothing measured against Lucifer’s scale of time.

“No,” Castiel admitted. 

“Then I have a proposition for you. Just a small incentive, you understand,” Lucifer sipped the macchiato. It was bitter and perfect; humanity aside, she decided the earth could stay in business for coffee’s sake.

Large blue eyes stared at her with every bit of puzzled apprehension she had expected. She rested the miniature cup back on its miniature saucer and it was brimming again in an instant.

“You’re low on fuel. I’m doing pretty well, myself. I thought perhaps I could provide a small _donation_.”

Castiel didn’t say anything. Lucifer had not expected him to.

“I know what you’re thinking; I would never deign to do such a thing for anyone, never tear off the smallest fragment of my grace. Too proud of the power I wield. Indeed, until very recently such reasoning would have been entirely sound. But I see now that you have always been an exception—have you not, Castiel?” Lucifer rolled out the syllables indulgently, smiling appreciatively at the look on the young one’s face. This was a child who had not forgotten Lucifer’s days of exaltation; the Lord’s favourite, the most beautiful and beloved amongst all the Host of Heaven. There were days when Lucifer had come close to forgetting, and yet this inconsequential foot soldier remembered perfectly what shadow of the Archangel’s glory he had been permitted to look upon.

“Your motives elude my comprehension, Lucifer,” Castiel replied, resorting to stiffness in his confusion. She found it endearing.

“Tell Dean, and receive grace enough to sustain you,” Lucifer said simply. 

Castiel looked awfully thoughtful for a fallen angel who’d just been offered the deal of a lifetime. A lifetime that went for all eternity, no less. Lucifer supposed that if her opinion of Sam was exposed to him prematurely then feelings of awkwardness and embarrassment might ensue. It was ludicrous that she could understand such things, and yet it felt… natural. 

“Might I preface this confession with an explanation of this transaction?”

“Whatever floats your boat, as they say.”

And with that, Lucifer was sure she saw the last remnants of real hatred filtered from the pools of Castiel’s eyes and drained away.

_

Dean grabbed a few hours’ sleep, knowing that until Sam (if he really _was_ free) decided to turn up there was nothing else useful for him to do. When he came to, he slid out of bed to find Cas sitting at the table in the kitchen area. His back was ramrod straight, body rigid, emotions carefully schooled from his features in a way that reminded Dean of the old Cas. He was surprised by just how strongly he disliked it.

“What’s up?” he asked. There were no cups or plates before Cas on the table, nothing on the bench that had been put there since the previous night. Cas was just… sitting.

And staring at him with that heavy, unreadable gaze.

“I have been contacted by Lucifer,” Cas said slowly.

Dean was talking before he could figure out what to say. “Has he really let Sam go? Is Sammy okay? How did he talk to you? Why the hell are they in England?” he blurted. 

Cas shook his head. “Sam has indeed been freed, but I cannot answer your other questions, I am sorry.”

“Hey, no, it’s alright.” It felt weird, trying to reassure someone whose body offered no clues about what they were feeling. Dean preferred it when Cas’ humanity hijacked his face; preferred the drunken snufflings and hungover groans, even the fatalist despair. That he appreciated those things was clearer to him now that the cracks they had leaked out through all seemed to have been glued up. “What did Lucifer say?”

“He made me an offer. I can have grace again.”

“What?” Dean hadn’t seen that one coming.

“The grace of an archangel is immense; a fine trimming from the edge of Lucifer’s and I will be able to harness at least as much power as I have ever wielded before.”

Dean was pretty sure he could feel his mind losing screws as it tried to process what Cas was saying. He’d just woken up, and it wasn’t like he’d slept a lot to begin with, _and_ he was anxious and _really_ confused about Sam. Plus, okay, maybe he hadn’t been so light on the whiskey lately.

 _What did Lucifer want from you in return?_ was what Dean meant to ask. A chuckled “you don’t have to kill me, do you?” was what followed a defensively cheery grin out into the open.

Cas shook his head, and Dean thought he caught a flash of _something_ there in his eyes. It looked kind of like fear. Dean didn’t like that at all.

“Seriously Cas, what did he ask you for? You don’t have to give it to him, we can find a different way to get you powered up again—I don’t understand why he would—”

“His terms are generous,” Cas cut in, but his voice still sounded oddly small.

“Okay, then,” Dean frowned, “tell me what they are.”

Cas’ mouth opened, and he looked kind of expectant, like he was surprised no words were finding their way out. He brought his lips together again. Dean couldn’t help but note, not for the first time, what nice lips they were—all cushiony and soft-looking. “I do not think I can explain it adequately,” Cas muttered.

“I thought you said it wasn’t so bad?”

“It is… a complicated situation to express,” he faltered. 

“Damn it Cas, how hard can it be—” Dean stopped speaking, because the angel was suddenly standing _much_ closer. Inches-from-his-nose kind of close—god, apparently the personal space issues had returned with the unnatural rigidity. Dean felt warm breath on his cheek. He went to step back, but Cas’ hands caught his wrists and before he could pull himself away Dean’s mouth was pressed up against something warm and—

Was Cas _kissing him_? 

_Yep,_ Dean’s brain confirmed a moment later, Cas _was_ kissing him—an awkward press of mouth, stiff like he was too petrified to move, hesitant like he wasn’t sure how much pressure should be applied. 

Cas was kissing him, and he was about ninety-nine-point-eleven percent sure it wasn’t a dream.

“Mmnh—” Dean pulled back from Cas’ lips and tried to get a read on those blue eyes. What was Cas doing? And what in god’s name was Lucifer playing at?

Cas just kept looking resolutely downwards. Dean reached out a hand and rested its palm under Cas’ chin, tilting his head up.

“Hey,” he said, when Cas screwed his eyes shut, rather than meeting Dean’s. “Cas, look at me, man.”

Cas complied.

“What was that about?” Dean asked softly. One part of his brain was still kicking the rest for cutting the kiss off before it had really even started, but an even bigger part just needed to know what the hell was happening before it could go any further. This wasn’t just some chick he could buy a few drinks for, feel up and never see again. This was _Cas;_ he wasn’t sure the guy’d even kissed anyone before. Dean wasn’t supposed to want anything like this from him, let alone actually _take it._ When Cas didn’t seem to be offering an answer, Dean continued. “Did—did you mean that?”

Cas sighed. “I did. That I reveal my feelings to you was Lucifer’s price. I hope it will not affect our—”

“Shut up,” Dean interrupted. He was about five seconds’ worth of self-restraint away from leaning back in and cutting him off the fun way, but he had to be sure. Yeah, he and Cas had always seemed to stare at each other a lot, but it had just been the way of things, hadn’t it?—Neither of them were that good at words. _Had_ it meant something else after all?

“Is that something you actually want?”

“Yes, I—”

“Good.”

Dean swooped forward and picked up where they’d left off. The slide of mouths was less awkward now that he knew it was a happening thing; Dean wrapped a hand around Cas’ back to bring him closer, tilting his head to avoid a clash of noses and deepen the kiss. Cas let him lead, humming contented little noises that were fast becoming Dean’s favourite sounds. Everything felt warm; the excited buzz in his stomach, the scratchy burn left by Cas’ stubble on his cheeks. It wasn’t like his dreams had been—it felt more comfortable, that strange vibe that had made his skin feel crawly was blessedly absent. It was all brand new, but it seemed the pieces had all been there, shuffled around, for some time before they’d managed to put them together.

It was Cas who pulled away first, panting lightly. “Dean,” he breathed, still sounding disbelieving. Dean was a little offended that any doubt could be left after as awesome a kiss as that.

“Yeah,” he replied, a confirmation of everything in general. “Are we gonna talk about this?”

Cas looked surprised. “We can if you wish, but I had not anticipated that you would.”

Dean laughed, felt the first real smile in ages spread across his face. “You’re right about that.”

Dean felt the way he’d seen other people feeling in high school; a bit giddy, nervous as hell in the best possible way—and pathetically _hopeful_ , because if anyone was going to be stupid enough to stick by him despite his crappy excuse for a life, it was probably the guy who’d literally dragged him out of Hell. Cas had seen him at his worst right from the outset, and the gorgeous dumbass was _still_ here. 

And that was just it; much as Cas was a stranger to life as a human, the parts of it he understood best were exactly the reasons why Dean had never had anybody he could keep, and had never expected to. The parts of human life that most humans didn’t even know about. Cas knew the mess and the fear and the despair that came with always shouldering more responsibility than you could really handle, just because you were there and nobody else was going to do it. He knew how damn _breakable_ everything was, how breakable certain parts of Dean were, without Dean ever having to admit or explain it. Cas was strong enough, knowledgeable enough to look after himself in this world full of monsters and demons—not vulnerable like Lisa and Ben had been. Hell, Cas was strong enough to look after Dean sometimes, which was more than Dean deserved. So maybe, Dean thought—maybe it was actually the least impossible thing he’d ever wanted to try for.

_

 

Sam knocked on the door of a motel room, enjoying the rapping sensation of his knuckles against the wood. He’d expected the novelty of having his body back to himself would have worn off more quickly, but every little sensation still came with a rush of relief.

Dean opened the door, and Sam couldn’t suppress a grin. His brother looked okay, thank god; tired from worrying more than sleeping, but that was Dean even at the best of times.

“Hey,” Sam said softly.

Dean brandished a silver knife and holy water.

“I don’t know how to check if you’re still _Lucifer,_ but I can sure as hell check you’re not a shifter, or a demon,” Dean said. 

“Fair enough, I guess,” Sam said, pushing the blade into the skin of his arm, then washing the line of welling blood off with a splash from Dean’s flask. He could understand that Dean would be unwilling to be too hopeful. Neither of them had expected Sam to come out of this, even in the best case scenario. 

“Would you believe that Lucifer’s not in me if I showed you where she is now?” Sam asked.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “What do you mean _she_ —” He stopped speaking as Katelyn’s body stepped into view, and started ogling instead. “Is that…”

“Hello Dean,” Lucifer said with a smug smile. “Castiel,” she nodded. “I know, different haircut, new colour and all that jazz, you hardly recognise me. But it _is_ me.”

Sam was fairly sure he could hear Dean thinking. Trying to think, anyway.

“Can we come inside?” Sam asked, and Castiel stepped aside to let them through, pulling Dean back by the arm.

“So, little brother,” Lucifer said as she, Sam and Castiel took seats at the table. Dean was busy hunting for something in the fridge. Sam wouldn’t even blame him if it was whiskey he was after. “I am ready to uphold my end of our bargain. If you are still amenable to that, of course.” Lucifer sipped at a cappuccino that hadn’t been there a moment earlier. Sam didn’t register any surprise, though Dean looked a little mystified as he joined them.

Castiel looked at Lucifer with a fascinated expression—the kind Sam had usually seen aimed at Dean. Cas nodded. “I would be honoured.”

“Well, it’s a date, then!” Lucifer clapped her hands together, pleased, and turned to Dean, who hid his discomfort at the attention very poorly. “I’ll need to borrow your Cas for a moment; hope that’s alright.”

Dean nodded faintly, but mostly just stared. Castiel smiled reassuringly.

Then Lucifer leaned across and latched her mouth onto Cas’. Sam couldn’t help but chuckle at how suddenly Dean’s expression changed to one of indignation. He watched as Lucifer’s pale neck stretched out, pink lips parting where they met Castiel’s—caught himself noticing these things more than he probably should have. It was just… Katelyn’s was a very attractive body, and Lucifer… well, he’d be lying if he said it was all to do with the vessel and nothing to do with Lucifer. That was the part that worried him, the part he planned to put off confronting indefinitely. Sam turned his attention instead to the fact that glowing light appeared to be surrounding both angels. He wondered absently if he ought to shut his eyes against the brightness.

When Cas and Lucifer broke apart, Lucifer caught Dean’s eye and laughed. “I see Cas has certainly been faithful to our agreement.”

“Y-yeah,” Dean mumbled. Cas laid a hand over Dean’s on the table, and Sam saw his brother’s face relax. _Finally._

“Congrats, you guys,” he said, half teasing on the surface, but at heart completely earnest. Cas had been the best thing to happen to Dean so many times over—he had saved him, to begin with, but he had continued to do so since then, in smaller ways, too many times to count. The more he thought about it, the more Sam realised Cas was probably the perfect person to pry Dean’s heart out of its shell.

Dean flushed a little, but grinned at him, and it was the best smile Sam had ever seen. God, how had they made it from death wishes and demon blood, hopelessness, recklessness, to some semblance of _okay_?—Some strange Winchester version of _happiness?_ Sam was pretty sure that was the cue for demons, or angry angels, or zombies, or _something_ to tear down their door and try to drown them in their own blood. _That_ was what their lives were like.

And yet, as Castiel used his newfound grace to conjure a plateful of hamburgers in the centre of the table, Sam felt like this was precisely what their lives were supposed to be. Lucifer kept the coffees coming like it was no big deal to have four hundred espresso shots a day, and with a wave of the archangel’s hand a plate of delicious-looking pancakes and strawberries appeared at Sam’s place. He sighed contentedly and tucked in.

_

Lucifer watched Dean and Castiel radiating delight and felt a kind of contentment she had not experienced before. She had given them something, helped them through the dark towards each other until they finally collided. It felt good; better than wallowing in rage, better than smiting a dozen horrid demons at once. She wondered if this was why her Father had loved the humans so much—that inherent talent for choice. The hand of friendship only meant so much when it was extended freely, having set aside the swords, guns and holy oil. 

She watched Sam Winchester tuck into the breakfast she had made for him, and considered how far from her old path she had strayed, how little she regretted it.

There would still be work to do; demons to banish to the underworld, Michael himself to speak with—but as they sat, the one people called devil, the young angel who had fallen not for his hatred, but for his love of humanity—and the two stubbornest humans ever to walk the face of her Father’s earth, Lucifer willed it all to wait until she’d had time to spend with these people, to figure out how to know them. 

If she _had_ to, she’d get around to ending the world some other time. 

Later. 


End file.
